


Lonely Gods

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Spitting Out Seeds [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Humor, Identity Issues, M/M, Magic, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Self-Esteem Issues, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 18:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14338887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Loki is frustrated at how little his magic seems in comparison to his new friend's: the Grandmaster gives him some perspective.





	Lonely Gods

Three days on the planet that the Grandmaster has named _Sakaar_ finds Loki alone beneath the Grandmaster’s tree, practising what magic he can. The Grandmaster has near covered the planet with land and ocean alike, now, and Loki believes he has begun working on the finer parts of foliage and fauna – but when he takes a break, he comes upon Loki.

“What do you, uh, _know_ about magic?” the Grandmaster asks him, and Loki looks up from the object of his concentration: a single seed of the black citrus he now knows as _Grappa_. Loki has gardened with magic before, and had spent many of his childhood years walking in the golden orchards under Iðunn’s purview: Loki has used his magic to breed plants together, to encourage them to grow, even encouraging them to grow marginally faster, to grow in weeks instead of months, but what the Grandmaster had done? Making a healthy, fruit-bearing tree with not even a seed at its heart?

Practise as he might, Loki cannot match the feat of spellwork. Oh, to be sure, Loki can conjure things, make magic real once more – he can conjure fabrics and stones, devices and fruits, even meat, but to conjure a thing that is _living_ , and thriving some days later, from scratch?

“What do you mean, what do I _know_?” Loki asks, his teeth gritted together, his tone icy.

“I think you’re being kinda hostile,” the Grandmaster says in a mild-mannered tone, looking down at him with his golden eyes full of amusement. His lower lip, which Loki had torn open mere days before, is almost finished in its healing, and the brown skin is tinged blue by the thin, new skin, slightly bruised.  “I’m just asking you a question, honey.”

“Don’t call me honey: I am not _sweet_. And I object to the implication that I know _nothing_ about my craft!” He feels his temper hot in his veins, and half-expects the Grandmaster to retort, to strike him, even, but he merely stands ever still, his hands loosely clasped over his belly. His bruised lips are quirked into a small, affectionate smile.

“I didn’t say you knew nothing. I asked what you _did_ know. Gimme an idea of what we’re working with here, and maybe I can help you out.” Loki sighs, sitting back on the grass and looking at the other man, trying to draw together the words with which he can _voice_ his frustration.

“I have studied magic for near three thousand years,” Loki says, lowly, his voice carefully measured. “With the greatest of _respect_ , Grandmaster, I do not take well to being spoken to like I am some sort of child.”

“Uh huh,” the Grandmaster says, sounding bored. “Listen, Lolo—”

“Loki.”

“Kiki—”

“ _Loki_.”

“Pretty boy,” the Grandmaster says, with an air of finality, and Loki can’t quite find it in himself to object, “you wanna know how long _I’ve_ been studying magic for?” Loki looks the Grandmaster up and down, hesitating, before he gives a nod of his head. The Grandmaster thinks for a moment, his hand upon his painted chin, his eyes blinking coquettishly, and then he says, “Uh, about… Hm. Huh. Thirteen billion years.”

“Thirteen _billion_? The universe itself is only—”

“Oh, so you can do math, too? Your talents just don’t end, do they?” Sarcasm is the closest the Grandmaster has come to outright unpleasantness, and yet even the sharp tone has an element of levity to it. Loki knows the taste of deception: when one is elevated to the status of god, when one has the power of worshipers behind one, it plays upon the very reality around you. Loki has powers he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for people _believing_ he had them, the ability to distinguish between truth and lies among them, and the Grandmaster’s statement smacks only of the truth. The universe is approximately thirteen point seven billion years old, meaning…

“You’re an Elder,” Loki says softly. This explains everything – the awesome power that radiates from the other man, the _ease_ with which he commands his magic, the strange, effervescent energy he seems to carry himself with. This is more than eccentricity: this is the madness only a true immortal can embrace. “I was raised on stories about you.”

“Ooh, what did the stories say?” the Grandmaster asks, with no small amount of narcissistic pleasure, but Loki feels small, and _stupid_ , and young. What must his worshipers feel when they look to _him_?

“That you were dangerous, and marvellous, and—” How could he have been so _foolish_? Loki turns his face away from the other man’s, staring into the ether, and by the _Norns_ , what does he think he’s doing here? It would be one thing if the Grandmaster was another god like Loki himself, merely someone slightly older, but this— Loki might as well be an _amoeba_ to the Grandmaster. What could he possibly want from him?

“Oh, I don’t like that face,” the Grandmaster says, putting his palms together and frowning as he meets Loki’s gaze. “That’s the “I should go” face, and I thought we were, ah, _past_ that.”

“But you— Why do you want me here?”

“You’re _fun_ ,” the Grandmaster answers, as easily as breathing. “You’ve said “no” to me, ooh, I don’t know, twenty times in the past few days. You have any idea what kind of a novelty that is? Besides, you’ve got potential.”

“Potential?” Loki repeats, and the Grandmaster laughs, reaching out and cupping Loki’s face. His hand is warm, the heated flesh in stark contrast to Loki’s own cool skin, but Loki leans into it nonetheless, feels the wrinkles and lines in the Grandmaster’s palm.

“You’ve been a teacher before, right?” the Grandmaster asks, softly. “You’ve had students in magic? Seen the way their eyes light up when they finally _nail_ something, and you have the satisfaction of having guided them through it? Felt that warm, fuzzy feeling at your student’s success?” Loki nods, dumbly, and the Grandmaster lowers his voice even further, so that his words are carried by nothing but a breath. “You ever had a student you _knew_ had the potential to surpass you?” Loki’s eyes widen.

“Me? You think I could—?”

“ _You_? No!” the Grandmaster laughs from his belly, the sound deep and low and intoxicating, and Loki feels his cheeks flush hot with blood, feels the shame bubble beneath his skin. “No, of course not – I’m a nether-being from the other end of infinity, and you’re just a pretty boy from _Asberg_ —”

“Asgard,” Loki corrects him.

“But like I said: you’ve got potential, ya know? You couldn’t be like _me_ , but you could be, uh, pretty good.”

“I have long been under the impression I _was_ pretty good,” Loki mutters. The Grandmaster’s palm shifts, and he grips at the sides of Loki’s jaw, squeezing _just_ slightly: never has Loki been more aware of how easily the Grandmaster could split him into atoms, turn him into dust, of how easily that magnificent, depthless power could destroy him—

“You’re pretty, and you’re good,” the Grandmaster offers: his grip is tight, but his words are soft, and they punch a breath out of Loki’s chest. The Grandmaster has no right to speak of Loki's past, or even his personhood - what could he possibly know of Loki? Good? Him? It's nothing short of a cosmic joke, and yet Loki cannot help but wait with bated breath for whatever the Grandmaster will tell him next. “You’re so young: you’ve got a long way to go, and I can’t teach you if I don’t know what you’ve learned already.”

“I don’t feel young,” Loki says under his breath. And how could he feel young? Loki has had children and lost them, married and lost that, been worshiped and reviled in turns, been scarred in a thousand ways—

“That’s okay,” the Grandmaster replies, with an easy flash of teeth. “I don’t feel old.” Loki reaches up, touching the Grandmaster’s hand, but he doesn’t pull it away from his cheek: instead, he stands with his palm against the Grandmaster’s wrist, feeling the soft pulse of magic and blue blood beneath the skin. They stand like that for a long time, but what does it matter?

Loki feels like he has a glimpse of eternity: there’s no rush here.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really want to tag this series teacher-student because it conjures up such a different image of their relationship than the one I'm trying to present, but that just means that element of it will go untagged entirely, I think. I was trying to mess around trying to find a tag that specifies more of an "ancient" deal, but the equivalent is apprenticeships, and an "apprentice" is usually somebody training to eventually become equivalent to their master, which... Not gonna happen.
> 
> But hey, tags are always going to be rather specific. What can one do?
> 
> I'm hoping to just write some more Marvel fics in general, so if you have any requests, check out [my Tumblr here](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com), and feel free to send any requests you have in!


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